


the arkham diaries

by byronicmaiden



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Arkham Asylum, Bloodletting, Doctor/Patient, Electroconvulsive Therapy, F/M, Female Oswald Cobblepot, Mental Institutions, Misogyny, Multi, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, References to Shakespeare, Shakespeare Quotations, Slut Shaming, Victorian Attitudes, ophelia - Freeform, sex therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-01-10 21:56:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18416642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byronicmaiden/pseuds/byronicmaiden
Summary: Osvalda Cobblepot’s time in Arkham Asylum, recorded in her own diary.





	1. preface

**Author's Note:**

> i’m finally getting around to uploading this! real quick, i just wanna say, if you have an issue with female oswald, don’t read this. if your main concern is that there won’t be any dudes making out for you to fetishize, don’t read this. this is about the mistreatment and sexual violence against mentally ill women, especially in mental institutions. if you have an issue with that, don’t read this.

I am now, in the eyes of the law, insane.

Let me back-track.

I’m not insane. I’ve known this for a very long time, despite what so many people like to say. Never have I heard voices or had hallucinations; my feet have always been planted firmly on the ground, my head very much below the clouds.

But, an insanity plea was, apparently, the only way to avoid spending the rest of my life in prison, or, more likely, spend a few years in prison until I was marched to the electric chair. Prison and/or Death vs. Psych Ward; it wasn’t a hard choice.

The optimistic part of me hoped, maybe, I would be welcomed into a bright, clean rehabilitation facility, white walls and white sheets and smiling nurses in freshly-starched white skirts. Asylum. Definition: a place of retreat and security. That was good, right? It was certainly better than prison. Friendly medical staff comforting me and calming me, treating me so gently, always offering me warm tea and pillows.

It won’t surprise you to learn that things did not turn out this way.

After my ‘arrest’ (I use the word loosely, as I was never read my rights), I was swept away into the GCPD interrogation room.  
Me, bloody nose and bruised cheek, Galavan’s blood still on me.  
Captain Barnes, prodding me with questions about his death, about what happened.  
Me, telling him exactly what he wanted to hear, what he expected to hear.  
Me, confessing all the dirty details.  
(Is it a confession if it’s not entirely true?)  
Me, channeling every crazy girl I’d witnessed in films directed by men; wide darting eyes, perfectly parted lips, tear stained cheeks. Interesting, how many physical similarities there are between the mad girl and the porn star.  
Me, transferred to the holding cell in the station, pleading to my old friend Ed to leave flowers on my mother’s grave.  
‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance…’ Ophelia’s lilting words echoing through my brain.  
‘I would give you some violets, but they wither'd all when my father  
died.’ 

Again I was swept away, large men holding me by the forearms, this time to a police car, which I was oh so respectfully shoved into, one man pushing my head downward. Most new arrivals are put on a bus with their fellow future inmates and shipped by the dozen. They file off one after another and line up to get their first dosage of drugs.

Apparently I was a special case. Why I got such a dignified delivery they never told me, though there’s a handful of reasons to choose from, the most likely being that the GCPD wanted the publicity; think of the headline! Queen of Crime Goes to the Dungeon. Image of me being shoved into my ‘carriage’, my face twisted in anger, mascara smeared around my eyes.

The cop who delivered me said nothing as we drove. My wrists were bound by handcuffs the entire time. I remained silent and unbothered, even as paparazzi hounded our car, slapped their sweaty hands on the windows, shouting at me, Miss Cobblepot, why did you kill Theo Galavan?  
(Why not?)  
Miss Cobblepot, are you working with the police?  
(Depends on your definition of ‘working with’.)  
Osvalda, is it true Theo Galavan killed your mother?  
(Yes, you stupid bitch, and don’t presume you have the right to address me by my first name.)

The sky was overcast, how original. Allow me to add another cliche on top of that: a large gray bird circled above us. A vulture. I decided not to think about why something that is drawn to copious amounts of dead flesh would be circling the facility I was to be staying at. 

We drove through a pair of heavy iron gates, sealed car doors doing nothing to drown out their grotesque creaking. Above the gates, in twisting, sharp letters, like knives, was an entrance sign, bearing the horrifying name of my new home:  
Arkham Asylum.


	2. enjoy your stay

My driver escorted me through the front lawn, doing nothing to hide me from the reporters and camera flashes. Rain landed on our heads and I was hit with the ironic wish for an umbrella.

Check-in didn’t take long, but like I said, I’m a special case. I’m sure the police are quite excited to get the mayor-killer locked away.

I arrived dressed in a modest black dress, cap sleeves, deep cut, fur coat. A nurse with blonde victory rolls politely asked me to remove all articles of clothing, which I obliged, setting my dress, my coat, my shoes, a pearl necklace, two diamond earrings, a pair of rounded sunglasses, the pins holding my hair in place, and ten press-on nails into a plastic bin, which another guard carried out of my sight. I felt a pang of sorrow; I really liked those diamond earrings.

I was walked– naked, barefoot, two men with guns behind me– into a tile room with a drain on the floor. Two guards, faceless and rough, searched me, ones hand sliding down and squeezing my left breast, the other laughing in response.

I spun on my heel to face him, “If you touch me again, it’ll be the last time you have hands.”

I expected a look of fear. He only smiled.

“Really? You gonna kill me? Princess, you’re not in charge anymore.”

I grit my teeth and lunged at him. Or I attempted to, his partner grabbing me by the wrists, whacking me over the head, sending me onto the floor.

I groaned, once, which I suppose was enough confirmation that I was conscious, and the guards picked me up again, shoved me against the wall, my face smacking against cold tile.

He panted, hard, in my ear, his mouth shoved against my neck, leaving a wet circle on my skin. He pulled away, spun me around, shoved my back against the wall.

“Spread your legs.”

It was then I began to realize how little respect I was to be given within these crumbling Asylum walls.

After my thorough search, I was issued my very own set of Arkham-approved clothing. Black and white stripes everywhere. Very Tim Burton. I hated it.

Let me tell you about Arkham’s fine choice of footwear: none. I am barefoot, like a toddler, or the subject of a John William Waterhouse painting, which is rather worrying, considering the filth on our fine establishments floors.

After being dressed, the same guards as before led me into another room, where I was to be interviewed and photographed.

The photo was first. One quick flash; they didn’t even give me a count of three, and I can assume I looked awful, considering the disheveled state of my hair, the bruise beginning to form on my left cheekbone.

I was sat in a cracked leather chair, a woman older than me, dark-skinned and bespectacled, on the other side of a desk. She smiled at me, a fake smile she must’ve thought was reassuring. It wasn’t. At all.

“Hello, Osvalda. My name is Miss Peabody, I’m a psychiatrist here at Arkham.”

“Miss Cobblepot,” I corrected.

“Miss Cobblepot.” She nodded at me, pulled out a pen and tapped it to her desk, looking down at a sheet of paper below her.

“Miss Cobblepot, would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Yes, but until you’re willing to answer them, you’ll have to stay in our waiting room.” She gave me that smile again. I knew waiting room was code for holding cell.

I said nothing, looked at the floor, clenched my jaw.

“That’s what I thought. Now, let’s start with your full name.”

After an hour of being prodded with questions, my patient roster (the appropriate term, apparently) was passed into my hands so I could review it, to create the illusion that I had any control in this situation.

* * *

 

_Patient Number: B-113_   
_Name: Osvalda Chesterfield Cobblepot_   
_Age and Sex: Thirty-One Years, Female_   
_Married, Single, or Widowed?: Single_   
_Has Any Family?: None Known_   
_Occupation: Criminal_   
_Habits of Life: …criminal_   
_Religious Persuasion: Jewish_   
_Brought by Whom?: Captain Nathaniel Barnes, G.C.P.D._   
_Form of Insanity: Criminal Sociopathy_   
_Supposed Cause: Unknown_   
_Is Hereditary?: Yes_   
_Is Suicidal?: Yes_   
_Is Dangerous to Others?: Yes_   
_Is Destructive to Property?: Yes_   
_State of Bodily Health?: Unwell; Cannot walk properly_

_Facts Specified in Medical Certificate, Upon Which Opinion of Insanity Founded:_

_1\. Facts Indicating Insanity Observed by Medical Man:_   
_* Typical female hysteria_   
_* Prone to bouts of violent anger_   
_* Homicidal impulses_   
_* Delusional ideas about her importance amongst Gotham’s criminal underworld_   
_* Experiences bouts of hyper-sexuality_   
_* Attacked two of Arkham’s own orderlies for attempting to do their jobs_

_2: Other Facts Indicating Insanity, Communicated to Him by Others:_   
_* Murdered Mayor Theo Galavan via asphyxiation with an umbrella down the throat_   
_* Has committed numerous other gruesome crimes_   
_* Has made numerous accusations against Detective James Gordon (such as that he murdered Theo Galavan) which, as he is a respected member of the G.C.P.D., are clearly false_   
_* Attacked Captain Nathaniel Barnes by smashing a vase over his head_   
_* Unhealthily close relationship to deceased mother_   
_* Found wandering the streets of Gotham in a daze, wearing filthy and torn clothing, after murdering Mayor Theo Galavan in cold blood_   
_* Presumed intent to prostitute_   
_* Past as prostitute to the Falcone and Maroni crime families_

_Treatment:_   
_Electroshock therapy, heavy medication, bloodletting, hydro-therapy, moral treatment, therapeutic intercourse and pelvic massage._

_Order Signed by:_   
_1\. Doctor Hugo Strange, Arkham Asylum F.T.C.I._   
_2\. Ethel Peabody, Arkham Asylum F.T.C.I._   
_3\. Captain Nathaniel Barnes, G.C.P.D._   
_4\. Detective James Gordon, G.C.P.D._

* * *

 

“No,” I started. “This isn’t correct. You’ve written lies about me, some of this is simply not true– “

Before I could finished my sentence, the guards from before were raising me to my feet, Miss Peabody nodding at them.

“Gentlemen, please show Miss Cobblepot to her cell and administer her first dosage of medication.”

“What?” I was dragged, literally dragged, out of my chair, my limbs flailing, trying to escape this mans grasp and failing. “Didn’t you hear me? Your paper is not correct! This is wrong! You have to change it! You have to fix it!”

Miss Peabody said nothing to me, simply opened one of her desk drawers, retrieved a small syringe and carried it over to me, her hand brushing my hair aside, grasping my bare neck.

“Let go! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”

The needled jabbed into my throat and I wailed. Within seconds, my limbs were numbing, my legs folding beneath me, me falling to the floor. Before my eyelids could drift shut, I had one final thought: ‘deceased mother’. They didn’t even bother to write down her name.


	3. dr. strange will see you now

Let me tell you about my neighbors in the Asylum. There is a young girl, around 18, with matted dark hair and deep dark eyes, one long scar across her face. From what I’ve heard, her parents locked her up, believing her to be a demon-possessed murderer in the making. She spends the days sullen and silent, except for the times when she’s attempting to kill an orderly or fellow inmate by smashing whatever is close over their heads. She’s typically huddled in a cluster of two other women, each equally dark-haired and scarred, both older than her. They seem to be always touching each other; one arm entangled with another, one braiding another’s hair, leg looped over leg as they lay sprawled on the cafeteria floor.

Another is a blonde, seemingly forever in a state of singing or dancing or handing out imaginary flowers. I hate her. She attempted to strike up a conversation with me once, offering me one of her flowers, then attempting to touch my hair.

“So pretty,” she whispered. “Pretty bird.”

“Don’t touch me.” How many times had I said that since setting foot in Arkham?

“Can I braid your hair?”

“No.”

Her fingers snaked into my hair, grabbed a handful. I smacked her away and she reached again, this time her fingers aiming towards my face.

I bit her, hard, and she yelped, pulled her hand back. A nurse was by her side within seconds.

“She’s mean,” the blonde mumbled, soothing her finger, the nurse guiding her away from me.

“Osvalda, you can’t go around biting other patients.”

“She was touching me.”

“Then you should’ve politely asked her to stop.”

“Like she would’ve listened! You shouldn’t have people like that out here with people like me.”

“People like you?” She prompted, giving me that doubtful smile. “Osvalda, I understand you haven’t yet adjusted to life in our institution– it usually takes new patients a few weeks to settle in, and I imagine it will take longer for someone of your...lifestyle, but you forget, you are here for a reason, just like everyone else.”  
⠀  
I wanted to bite her too. To yell that I’m not insane, that I don’t belong in here with the lunatics, but I know I can’t, because these rotten walls are the only thing standing in between me and the needle.  
⠀  
I swallowed. hard, and forced a smile on my face; the understanding, accepting smile that nice women always give.  
⠀  
“You’re right. I understand. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”  
⠀  
The nurse nodded at me, gave me a gentle pat on the cheek. I hate that I savored that touch.  
⠀  
I settled onto a cafeteria bench and wait until I can go back to my cell. All I want to do is sleep. Sleep and wait.  
⠀  
//  
⠀  
I’ve been in Arkham for three days now, and have yet to be introduced to our head psychiatrist, Doctor Hugo Strange, the man who signed my patient roster, despite me never seeing him do so. I wonder if he has a stamp of his signature that a nurse can plaster down on pamphlets so he doesn’t have to be bothered to do so himself.  
⠀  
This morning, Miss Peabody informed me I have my first ‘session’ with him today. How wonderful.  
⠀  
While I may not have ever spoken to my Doctor, I have seen his portrait hanging in the lobby of the Asylum. Not entirely unhandsome, with cold eyes and tight lips formed in a stern line. I hate that portrait, especially his eyes, which, while hidden behind round ruby glasses, seem permanently trained on me.  
⠀  
I wish it didn’t unsettle me as much as it does.  
⠀  
Miss Peabody and a man with a gun walked me to Strange’s office, the largest office I’d seen so far, deep within the Asylum, far away from any of the cells. Yes, God forbid he be forced to listen to the inmates he governed. I’d already decided I didn’t like this man, and this just hammered it home. I could picture him: a blurry image of every Mad Scientist from movies. Bloody gloves, surrounded by poisons, sometimes with a plague doctors mask just out of sight.  
⠀  
Miss Peabody opened the door for me, like I was incapable of doing so myself, deposited me in the office and left.  
⠀  
“Hello, Osvalda.”  
⠀  
I was still looking at the locked door when he spoke; I was slowly becoming accustomed to locked doors.  
⠀  
“Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the empty chair across from him and I know I don’t have a choice. I never do.  
⠀  
It’s better than prison, it’s better than prison, I repeated to myself, my survival mantra for getting me through this dreadful experience. I wanted to scream.  
⠀  
I settled into my assigned seat, crossed my legs and fold my hands in my lap, the way my mother taught me too. At first I wonder if this isn’t how a mad girl would sit, then decide the unsettling formality might help the facade.  
⠀  
“My name is Professor Strange, but please, feel free to call me ‘Hugo’.”  
⠀  
I wanted to laugh at his name, like something out of a heavy-handed Gothic novel. I nodded and said nothing. The less talking, the better.  
⠀  
“I’m going to be in charge of your treatment while you’re here with us. It’s my, and everyone here at Arkham’s, hope that we can help rehabilitate you into a proper young lady. Would you like that?”  
⠀  
I nodded, again. I wouldn’t like that, thank you very much, but whatever got me out of here.  
⠀  
“Good. Now, let’s start by you telling me a bit about yourself.”  
⠀  
“What do you want to know?”  
⠀  
“Well,” he folded his hands, leaned forward. “Whatever you feel comfortable sharing. I think to truly rehabilitate a criminal such as yourself, one first has to properly understand them. Her. You.” He smiled at me, what I assume was supposed to be reassuring but was only threatening, like a wolf showing a sliver of fang before attacking.  
⠀  
“Where do you want me to start?”  
⠀  
“How about at the beginning? Were you born in Gotham?”  
⠀  
“Yes.”  
⠀  
“Where?”  
⠀  
“In Gotham.”  
⠀  
He gave me a slightly amused nod, took his glasses off.  
⠀  
“You were raised by your mother,” he said, a statement, not a question. He’d clearly studied my file.  
⠀  
“Yes.”  
⠀  
“What about your father?”  
⠀  
“He’s dead. I never knew him.”  
⠀  
“I see.” He lifted his clipboard off his desk, which I then noticed held my patient roster, and studied it, then studied me. “‘Murdered Mayor Theo Galavan via asphyxiation with an umbrella down the throat.’ Well, Osvalda, I can’t say I’ve ever seen that one before. You’re quite...creative.”  
⠀  
“I prefer ‘resourceful’.”  
⠀  
He laughed slightly, breathily.  
⠀  
“Hm. ‘Has made numerous accusations against Detective James Gordon’. May I ask, how do you know Detective Gordon?”  
⠀  
“I helped him with a few cases. I gave him some useful information. We work well together.”  
⠀  
“That’s all? Nothing more personal?”  
⠀  
“No. Nothing more personal. I barely know him.”  
⠀  
“But you accused him of murdering Theo Galavan, didn’t you? When you were arrested?”  
⠀  
I sighed, blew my bangs out of my eyes. “I was...desperately attempting to find something to get me out of jail. He was the first officer I could think of. Truly, I don’t think I even know any others.”  
⠀  
He made a complacent sound. He didn’t believe me.  
⠀  
We sat in silence, me awkwardly perched on my leather chair, him busying himself with my file, reading and rereading and scribbling things down. What could he possibly be writing? What more could be said?  
⠀  
“You do understand why you’re in here, don’t you, Osvalda?”  
⠀  
“Yes.”  
⠀  
“Why, then?”  
⠀  
“According to you,” I sneered on that word. “It’s because I murdered Mr. Galavan, which– again, according to you– makes me insane. Murder equals insanity. But, he murdered my mother, and no one sent him to an insane asylum, right? So why is it only insanity when I murder? Why does it only matter when he, a successful politician, is the victim, hm?” He’d raised his hands, that typical calm down, calm down gesture that men did. “Why is his life worth so much more than my mother’s? Than mine?”  
⠀  
“What makes you think your life is valued as less than others?” He had his pen at the ready, hoping I’d spout something for him to psychoanalyze later.  
⠀  
“I’m locked up in an insane asylum despite doing nothing wrong, aren’t I?”  
⠀  
“You believe you did nothing wrong?”  
⠀  
I swallowed hard, my fists clinched at my sides. “I know I didn’t.”


	4. therapy

After my outburst, I remained silent and uncooperative for the rest of my session, until my time was up, two guards leading me back to my cell. I was lucky to not be forced to share a room with another inmate.  
⠀  
The drugs are starting to get to me. The more they pump into my veins, the less aware I become. Myself, my surroundings; everything is a blur. I wonder, how long until I can barely keep my eyes open, until my legs become even more useless than they already are, and I have to be wheeled around the Asylum in a wheelchair?  
⠀  
I was deep in a drug-induced sleep, my dreams full of images of needles and blood and my Doctors eyes, when I was awoken by the sensation of being yanked from my bed.  
⠀  
Two orderlies held me by both of my arms, lifting me a few inches above the ground, me kicking my legs and struggling, with no success.  
⠀  
“Let me go– what are you doing? Let me go! Now! Put me down! I’ll kill you! Let me go!”  
⠀  
They didn’t bother responding.  
⠀  
They dragged me into a secluded room, deep in the Asylum, where one of my attendants lifted me bridal-style, forced me flat on my back, secured leather straps over every part of me that could possibly be used to fight back– my ankles, knees, wrists, elbows, neck, and head. I fought back, struggled against my restraints, kicked my legs and waved my arms as much as I could, which wasn’t much.  
⠀  
White lights, blinding, ugly fluorescents, shined down at me, burning my eyes, like a Hollywood alien abduction. So bright I could barely keep my eyes open, could barely see anything but silhouettes surrounding me.  
⠀  
I felt a jab in my neck; a needle, shooting something inside of me. Almost immediately, my body grew tired and I stopped fighting, my limbs so heavy I couldn’t lift them.  
⠀  
“What are you...what are you doing...stop, please, let me go, please...”  
⠀  
“Shh, Osvalda. This is all part of your treatment. You’ll be better soon. Just relax. Don’t fight.”  
⠀  
As my eyes clicked from open to shut, like a cartoonish drunk, I felt a pressure on my hips, hands on my body, something being placed over my head, a sharp pain in my skull, and then everything was dark.  
⠀  
I awoke in my cell the next morning, all bruised and torn, a thick red circle of blood staining my mattress, surrounding me.  
⠀  
Bruises dotted my body, which was already corpse-pale from lack of sunlight. I tried to sit up and yelped. I was stuck. Frozen. Held prisoner by my broken body, with no choice but to either wait until someone found me or call for help.  
⠀  
My mouth stretched into a pitiful scream, me howling with pain even from speaking, tears returning to my eyes.  
⠀  
“Help! Someone, please, help, help!” I stretched out the last word: heeelllppp, my throat going scratchy and raw.  
⠀  
A nurse eventually found me, rushing to my side and soothing me, calming me, calling to a pair of orderlies in the hallway, who helped me from my stained mattress and deposited me into a rickety wheelchair, the nurse staying by my side as they wheeled me out of my cell.  
⠀  
I realized then that this nurse was the same woman who had helped check me in, the one with blonde victory rolls and red lipstick, like a 40s pin-up girl. She squeezed my hand in hers, kept her other hand on my shoulder, whispering to me it’s alright, it’s alright.  
⠀  
I knew that it was most certainly not alright.  
⠀  
I could see, through my hair hanging over my eyes, that I was being quickly wheeled towards Strange’s office, which didn’t exactly calm my nerves.  
⠀  
“Professor Strange,” the nurse started once inside, leaving my side for the first time since she found me. “Miss Cobblepot is injured. She’s bleeding– a lot.”  
⠀  
Strange looked up from his desk. My vision was blurry, but his face seemed red, flushed, startled. Like he wasn’t prepared for us to walk in on him like this.  
⠀  
“What happened?” He rose from his seat, found a place at my side, knelt down to look at me. I kept my gaze on the ground, hidden beneath my matted hair, my fingers fiddling with my skirt.  
⠀  
“I’m not sure. I only just found her. Normally I’d assume the blood was just menstruation, but look– “ She took my wrists, held them up for Strange to inspect. “She’s got bruises everywhere, and there’s some sort of...imprint, on her forehead.” She was leaning forward now, brushing my hair from my face, examining me.  
⠀  
Strange pushed her hands away, stood in between her and myself. “Thank you, Nurse. I will take it from here. You can get back to your work now.”  
⠀  
She blinked at him, then turned, putting a hand on my shoulder before shutting the door behind her.  
⠀  
He knelt by my side (I hated that– when people leaned down to my height, and it was even worse with me in this stupid chair, him bent down like I was a child) and brushed my hair out of my eyes. I jerked back, pulled my legs up to my chest. He ran his fingers across the bruise on my cheek, shook his head.  
⠀  
“Oh Osvalda, what happened?”  
⠀  
“What happened?” I spat, my eyes narrowed at him. “Ask your orderlies. They’re the ones who dragged me out of my cell and...tortured me all night.”  
⠀  
He raised his eyebrows, concerned, confused. “Torture? No, Osvalda, that’s simply part of your therapy. It’s an ingenious new form of treatment for patients such as yourself. A new type of immersive therapy, to help you surpass your issues.”  
⠀  
“My...therapy?” I blinked at him, scrambling as far backwards into my chair as possible without tipping over. “That’s your idea of therapy? How is that abuse supposed to make me ‘get better’?”  
⠀  
“It’s not abuse, Osvalda. I know it seems unpleasant, but it’s for your own good. You are a very dangerous woman, and this is how we will rehabilitate you, until you are no longer a danger– not only to the city, but to yourself, as well.”  
⠀  
I stared at him. I hated him, even more than I did before. If my limbs weren’t so weak (from both torture and blood loss) I would’ve attacked him, scratched him, bit him, something, anything! Don’t just sit there like a little idiot. The little idiot he wants you to become.  
⠀  
My original plan was to simply pretend I was ‘getting better’– to smile at doctors and hand out flowers and keep my hands folded primly in my lap. Just play dumb until I got what I wanted. I’d done it plenty of times before. Smile and shut up until they decided I was cured and set me free. Only now did I begin to doubt my plan, begin to wonder what sort of effect this ‘therapy’ could actually have on my brain.  
⠀  
“How...how much more of this...therapy, am I going to need?”  
⠀  
He smiled at me, that same predatory grin. “As much as it takes.”


	5. enfant terrible

As much as it takes. Apparently, that was a lot. Every night I was taken from my cell, marched through the Asylum, into that office, deeply buried in the heart of the institution, like a serial killers sound-proofed basement.  
⠀  
My mind is getting cloudy, dreamlike. It’s like I’m always just waking up; everything is fuzzy, like the footage from an old camera. Arkham’s living conditions are the perfect combination for keeping its inmates weak and subduable: lack of sunlight, heavy medication, abuse and rape masquerading as therapy, and of course, the bloodletting. Do you know what that is? It’s an old-school medical practice, dating back to the Victorian era. Apparently, it’s back in style. Our doctors strap us down, pluck hungry leeches from a jar, and let them crawl onto our flesh, drink our blood until we swoon, red dripping down our black and white stripes, and an orderly carries us off, tosses us into a wheelchair, rolls us into the cafeteria, the common room, an office for therapy, or just deposit us back into our cell, leave us stuck in a wheelchair all day and all night, or at least until we’re strong enough to stand up. I learned my third day that it was useless to tell a nurse or doctor when an orderly did this (or mistreated you in any other way), because they were sane and we were not, so it was immediately assumed we were either making it up or misreading otherwise standard treatment.  
⠀  
Every day, Professor Strange attempts to pry more information from my firmly closed-off brain. When I don’t comply, more dugs are issued. They lower my inhibitions and I get weaker, talk more, open up easier.  
⠀  
“Tell me about your childhood,” he said, looking at me through red lenses.  
⠀  
“What about it?”  
⠀  
“When did you first think about killing someone? Did you always have such violent impulses?” Not ‘did you think about killing people as a child?’– he had simply decided I was always a murderous little thing. He was right, but I still didn’t like it.  
⠀  
I pinched my white skirt between my fingers, pale and bony from time spent locked away. He started giving me pretty dresses during our sessions, because he knows I hate those awful stripes, always scratchy and stinking.  
⠀  
“Oh, I don’t know. I cant remember.”  
⠀  
“Do you remember how old you were when you first actually killed someone?”  
⠀  
After a moment I nodded, looked up at him. My doctor, my savior, my hero! Isn’t that what I always wanted?   
⠀  
“I was thirteen years old. It was a bit after my birthday. My mother had bought me a new pair of shoes– Mary Janes. And there was another little girl in my building– she had the same ones, and my mother was so nice to her, even though I was better, I was prettier, I loved her more. But she just...kept paying attention to that little girl. I came home from school one day, and that girl– I think her name was Krissi, Christy, something...she was in my house, in my kitchen, with my mother. Stealing all the attention for herself. She was going to ruin everything.”  
⠀  
“Is that why you killed her?”  
⠀  
“Yes. And...”  
⠀  
“And?”  
⠀  
“I didn’t like her. I never did, even before she latched on to my mother. I wanted her gone, and I had a realization: I could kill her. I could. Nothing was stopping me.”  
⠀  
He nodded and I could tell he was judging me.  
⠀  
“How did you kill her?”  
⠀  
“I waited in the stairwell until she came out. I asked her if she wanted to play with me.” He scribbled something else down. “We went behind our building, where I knew no one could see.”  
⠀  
“Then what?”  
⠀  
More silence.  
⠀  
He leaned forward, closer to me. “What did you do, Osvalda?”  
⠀  
“I hit her over the head with a brick. She screamed. I hit her again. She started crying, saying she was going to tell her mommy. I couldn’t let her. I kept hitting her until she was quiet.”  
⠀  
“That’s quite different from how you killed Mayor Galavan. Most repeat murderers have some sort of pattern.”  
⠀  
I shrugged, “I work with what I have. I like knives, though. They’re so pretty, the way they shine...the feeling of them going in, out, in, out...” My hand began jerking, pantomiming a stabbing motion.  
⠀  
“What did you do with her body?”  
⠀  
He’s enjoying this, something in my brain whispers. He loves it. “Nothing. I left. I went back to my apartment because I knew my mother would be making dinner soon. I threw the brick in the river.”  
⠀  
“What happened after that?”  
⠀  
My head lolled to the side and I looked at him with wet eyes. Wide, mad eyes. “I don’t remember. It was so long ago.”  
⠀  
My fingers tug at the lace on my dress; the whole thing was soaked in the smell of rot. I wondered then, how many more favorite patients Strange has had, how many more women have lived and died in this dress, bloodless and hollow until he’s done with them.


	6. in all my dreams i drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: contains heavy implications of rape.

⠀  
Professor Strange has issued a new form of treatment for poor, insane me: hydrotherapy.  
⠀  
I arrived in his office one day to find a large, porcelain tub in the middle of the room, filled with hot water, steam drifting off the surface.  
⠀  
I stopped, my limbs tensing at the sight. My Doctor stood beside the tub, arms folded, smiling gently.  
⠀  
He was more the happy to help me out of my uniform (it wasn’t the first time he’d seen me naked– every time he allowed me to change from my stripes to one of his lacy gowns, I wasn’t permitted any privacy, his eyes studying my nude form, presumably inspecting for cuts and bruises) and hold my trembling hand as I settled into the water, the warmth scalding my skin.  
⠀  
“It’s too hot,” I said, gasping when my feet were submerged.  
⠀  
“The temperature will help you, Osvalda. Help you to get better. You want to get better, don’t you?”  
⠀  
My eyes darted from left to right, my breath faltering. “Yes, of course.”  
⠀  
“Good. Then why don’t you sit down?”  
⠀  
I sank down slowly, hot water making my legs sting.  
⠀  
He sat in a chair beside me, poured water over my shoulders.  
⠀  
“There. Isn’t that nice?”  
⠀  
I nodded, lowered all the way down to avoid his prying hands, until the water came up to my chin and splashed over the sides.  
⠀  
“You’re making remarkable progress in your treatment. I’m very impressed, especially for someone with your history.”  
⠀  
I pulled my knees to my chest, my eyes wide and vigilant. “Thank you, Doctor.”  
⠀  
His fingers combed through my hair, prodded at tangles and curls, his hand trailing down, touched my slick shoulder, sank deep into the warm wet.  
⠀  
//  
⠀  
I no longer have control of my body, my mind. My brain is shifting into a fluttering, breathy thing. In my mind, my violent thoughts remain, yet when I go to act on them (scratch a nurse, bite an orderly), I’m stopped by some invisible force, all my limbs tensing, my brain throbbing against my skull, white foam oozing from my mouth as I convulse on the floor. Somewhere, I can feel Hugo Strange smiling.  
⠀  
Last night, when I was escorted from my cell for my nightly therapy session, I surprised myself by not putting up much of a fight; I walked towards the metal table I normally laid on, and an orderly stopped me, grabbed me by the forearm.  
⠀  
“Hang on. Take off your clothes first.”  
⠀  
“My– what?”  
⠀  
“Take them off,” he repeated, his teeth grit.  
⠀  
I blinked at him, then began undoing the buttons of my striped shirt, tried to hide behind my hair. He stared at me, seeming unimpressed. I folded my shirt, carefully sat it on the table, then stepped out of my skirt. No shoes or undergarments to worry about. I wondered then, if the other patients also wore nothing beneath their uniforms, or if it was just me. The orderly looked me over then reached forward, a warm hand trailing down my chest and between my legs. I remained silent and still.  
⠀  
Strange entered the room, emerging from some dark door I didn’t notice until now, and the orderly stopped, backed away. Strange gave him a dismissive nod and he removed his hand, pushed me towards the table, fastened the leather straps over my wrists, but left my legs free. He cranked a metal gear on the side of the table and the whole device lifted upright so that, while still strapped down, I was at more of a standing position.  
⠀  
I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for him to place that thing– the device that projected images of torture and death and my mother into my brain– onto my head. Instead, I felt my ankles grabbed, lifted upwards, a rope tied around one, then the other, so they were spread widely, without an option to close them.  
⠀  
“You seem nervous, Osvalda.” Strange said, stalked towards me, eyed my body with disgust. “But from what I know, you have plenty of experience in these activities. Is modesty suddenly so important to you?”  
⠀  
During my Nighttime Sessions, he was colder, crueler, than the caring psychiatrist he played at during the day, presumably because there were no cameras watching him, no nurses to report his transgressions. The orderlies down here were mean, grizzled men, unbothered by the torture they witness. I had a strong suspicion Strange preferred it this way.  
⠀  
Even with his cruelty, he still seemed to truly believe he was helping me.  
⠀  
“What do you mean?” I tried to free my legs and felt a phantom-shock sent to my brain, the remnants of my previous therapy.  
⠀  
“You were a gun moll during your early days with the Mob– a prostitute, isn’t that correct?”  
⠀  
“No,” I stuttered out. “I wasn’t, I wasn’t a prostitute. No one paid me.”  
⠀  
“You had sex with Salvatore Maroni– and a variety of other men– and, in return, they gave you jewelry, dresses, and, most importantly, your spot in the criminal underworld. What would you call that?”  
⠀  
“Business savvy.” The comment made my temples singe.  
⠀  
He said nothing, moved behind me. I heard a metallic rustling and braced myself; the device was placed over my head like a tiara.  
⠀  
“Your promiscuity is a serious issue, Osvalda. It’s what led you to such violent actions in the first place. We’re going to have to put quite a focus on fixing that.”  
⠀  
The machine fired up and I jerked; his fingers began stroking my thighs.  
⠀  
“Lucky for you, I know just the cure.”


	7. the new doctor

How does sex– forced or not– help cure my insanity? Well, I’ll tell you. Arkham’s esteemed doctors have taken a page from the Victorians, and the diagnosis of female hysteria has fallen back into favor. Plato believed a woman’s uterus was a separate being to herself, an animal within an animal, and it would wander all throughout the woman’s body, causing a whole myriad of problems to the poor woman, most of which could all be solved by men having sex with her until the uterus was back in place.  
⠀  
Doctors in the 19th century continued the diagnosis of hysteria as well as continuing sex-treatment. Women who were stressed, upset, melancholy, unfulfilled, nervous, and, most ironically, had both the desire for sex and the lack thereof, were considered hysteric, and treated by sex or masturbation (which they were, of course, not allowed to do themselves– instead a doctor would preform the act on the patient), and, in extreme cases, committed to an insane asylum or underwent a hysterectomy.  
⠀  
It seems no matter what a woman did to take control of her sexuality, whether embrace it or deny it, she would always be labeled mad because of it. I attempted to take control of it, didn’t I? And I’ve been labeled a prostitute, by Strange, by all of Gotham, because of it. But what about the men who had sex with me? The men who made me a ‘prostitute’? Where is the shame for them?  
⠀  
Where is the shame for any of them?  
⠀  
Though medicines, tools, and medical machines may have improved from the Victorian era, it appears doctors have not improved at all.  
⠀  
I sometimes find myself all alone, my legs pulled up to my chest, perched on a metal bench in the cafeteria, wondering about these things, wondering what I did to belong in here with the lunatics. Then I remember: I dared to seek justice against my mother’s murder. Why was that such a crime? Why was I punished, but Theo Galavan was not? I killed him, thus disrespecting the ‘sanctity of life’ and branding me insane– but was my mother’s life sacred? Is mine? Who looked out for her, when she was alive? Who was protecting her? Who was there when she bled out on a dirty warehouse floor? Not Captain Barnes. Not Jim Gordon. Not Hugo Strange.  
⠀  
Who is protecting all of us, all of the inmates in this heinous asylum? Who is protecting that ditzy blonde, those three scarred girls? What about Edward? I think about him so often in here, and how easily he could wind up behind these walls. What would become of him, my poor, sweet little Eddie? He isn’t fit for somewhere like this. At times, my mind wanders to dark places, thinking of what would happen should Strange ever get his hands upon him...  
⠀  
This and many other mad ramblings is what made Strange assign me another doctor– a woman doctor, this time, who specialized in reforming violent criminals.  
⠀  
He’ll still be taking care of me, of course, but he is oh so busy running the Asylum, he can’t spend every hour of the day sifting through my mental issues and telling me how to fix them.  
⠀  
I don’t want another doctor. I don’t want a new psychiatrist to tend to my wounds, talk to me in a gentle, almost motherly tone, sit across from me with kind eyes and ask me why I kill people.  
⠀  
Strange walked me out of my cell, bright and early in the morning, lead me into a new office, one I’d never seen before. It was softer than Strange’s officer; where his was sharp and looming, this one seemed far gentler. Knick-knacks and photos on the desk, a red knitted blanket covering the dirty couch. Unlike most people here, she’d at least made an effort to brighten Arkham’s gloomy decor.  
⠀  
He sat me in a chair across from her desk, his hands on my shoulders, like a vulture perched upon me. Not at all comforting.  
⠀  
The Doctor nodded at him, gesturing for him to leave, and I realized then that she was the blonde woman I previously thought to be a nurse, the one who had found me after my first therapy session, the one I’d felt a strange fondness for.  
⠀  
Once Strange had left, she stood up from her desk, walked across her office, to the couch and chair sitting on a pink rug, a full bookcase behind them. She put a hand on the back of the chair, but didn’t sit down.  
⠀  
“He can be so intimidating, right? Scary, honestly.” She comically pretended to shiver. “You can come sit over here if you’d like. It’s way comfier.”  
⠀  
I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. Never during my stay at Arkham (how long had it been? Weeks? Months?) did anyone attempt to accommodate my needs. Beds were hard and metal, bare feet always bleeding from whatever hazardous items lay discarded on the floor.  
⠀  
When she gave me that tight-lipped half-smile and a little shrug, I took my chances, rose from my metal chair, my legs weak beneath me, and made my way across the room. She settled into the chair and I took the couch.  
⠀  
“Is that better? Jeez, everything is so...sharp, here. I tore my jacket, you know? On my first day here. Snagged it on the arm of my chair. I’ve only been here a few weeks, I’m fairly new. I’ve barely gotten to do any real work, since Strange has me playing nurse, like I’m too dumb to deal with patients. He acts all polite to me, but I can tell he doesn’t like me, you know?”  
⠀  
I did. She just kept talking, on and on, not giving me any room to speak, which, truthfully, I didn’t really mind, because it meant I wouldn’t have to do much until the session ended.  
⠀  
She must’ve caught herself rambling, because she stopped, adjusted her glasses, embarrassed. New indeed.  
⠀  
“Gosh, I’m sorry, I’ve been talking too much. Maybe I really am too dumb to deal with patients, right?“  
⠀  
“It’s alright,” I said, smiled politely.  
⠀  
“It’s not. It’s pretty unprofessional. Jeez, I haven’t even introduced myself– my name is Dr. Quinzel. I’ll be one of your psychiatrists while you’re here.” She folded her hands in her lap, stared at me. This was the expert with a speciality in ‘reforming dangerous criminals’?   
⠀  
“So, um, Strange told me you suffer from nymphomania? And that’s one of the root causes of your violent behavior?” She said it like she’d heard I liked coffee with no sugar.  
⠀  
My shock at Strange telling lies about me, and creating a new mental illness I suffer from every day, has dulled. Nothing he says about me is surprising anymore. I imagine he has a little notebook he returns to every night, where he jots down new reasons I’m an evil diseased lying whore.  
⠀  
“I suppose so,” I said, doing my best to look somber but only looking bored.  
⠀  
She picked up her clipboard, read through it. “Strange says you’ve been, um...propositioning the orderlies and the doctors? According to this, you offered to perform oral sex on a male nurse so he’d give you more drugs? And when he reported you to Strange, you, um, offered him the same thing?”   
⠀  
It didn’t surprise me at all he was saying these things about me. Blame it on the patient, of course, but I hated this woman for believing him. A trained medical professional.   
⠀  
I once read about a young girl in 1856 who was diagnosed with nymphomania (which, originally, was a term only applied to women) because she was throwing a tantrum that Dr. John Thompkins Walton deemed sexual in nature. Apparently, she was effected with this disease because multiple families lived in her house and she had to share water with them, which might make sense if it wasn’t absolutely ridiculous. The girl eventually admitted to being a sex-obsessed lunatic and submitted to her doctors treatment. Doctor Walton took it upon himself to “render her sexually fit to assume the duties of a wife whenever such services were needed”. How noble of him.  
⠀  
(Oh, and don’t think I don’t see the irony of this man I hold such contempt for being yet another Doctor Thompkins.)  
⠀  
You know what I think? I think that doctor raped her until she no longer had the desire for any sexual contact, because it would only stir up memories of her past treatment, much like my doctor was currently doing to me.  
⠀  
Another doctor, Doctor Bienville, believed all different types of women were at risk of becoming nymphomaniacs, but he was most interested in the younger ones, insisting pubescent girls were particularly at risk. Another doctor said blonde women were the most susceptible. Another diagnosed nymphomania in three little girls who masturbated together. Another insisted a woman sexually desiring her son was a case of nymphomania, instead of simply a case of incestuous sexual abuse, like it probably actually was. It was said nymphomaniacs in mental institutions would make sexual remarks and offer themselves up to anyone they saw, like, according to Strange, I was now doing.  
⠀  
“Strange said that, did he?” I asked.  
⠀  
“Mm-hm,” she nodded.  
⠀  
“Then I suppose it must be true.”  
⠀  
“Is it...not?”  
⠀  
I shrugged, threw my hands up. “What does it matter? He says it is, so it might as well be, right?”  
⠀  
She furrowed her brow, an actually authentic look of concern. “Well if that’s incorrect, you should let me know, so I can fix it.”  
⠀  
I couldn’t tell if she was messing with me or not.  
⠀  
“No,” I shook my head. “It’s not. It’s correct. Sorry.”  
⠀  
She looked at me with weary eyes. “Alright.” Scribbled something down her clipboard.  
⠀  
“So, when did it start?”  
⠀  
I thought back to my childhood; my first sexual experience was when I was thirteen and a boy said he’d give me my first kiss if I sucked his dick, which I didn’t do. I remained a virgin until I joined Fish Mooney’s gang.  
⠀  
“Oh, ever since I can remember, I suppose...when I was little, my mother taped blankets around my hands to keep me from touching myself. I slept with every boy in high school who would have me. I was just so desperate for them to like me.”  
⠀  
The last part was not entirely untrue. I wanted everyone to love me, love me, love me. What’s the point of living if everyone doesn’t love you? Weak people will always say they don’t care what others think of them, which is most certainly not true.  
⠀  
“Why do you think that is?”  
⠀  
“I don’t know.”  
⠀  
“Do you have a history of sexual abuse?”  
⠀  
I looked up. Did I? Were the things Falcone and Maroni and all their men did to me considered sexual abuse? What about Strange? That boy from middle school? The orderlies here in the Asylum? In the eyes of the law, the eyes of the doctors and nurses taking care of me, I was nothing but a murderer. In the eyes of Strange, I was worse: I was a prostitute, a whore (men love that word), and everyone knows whores can’t get raped, so was I really a victim? If no one considered me a victim, was I?   
⠀  
“Yes,” I said, and then said nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay! harleen finally showed up! a light in the dark for poor osvalda?? probably not. i have no idea why i’m still posting this lmaooo


End file.
